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PIERRE

K itty is driving me crazy with her fucking texts about the god damn wedding.

I’m at a fucking wake. I don’t give a shit what color the linen napkins are or that the color roses she ordered don’t match her bridesmaid’s dresses perfectly.

I head upstairs to deal with her insane number of texts alone.

I thought she was busy at a photoshoot, I mean, it was one of the reasons she couldn’t be here today.

I let out a sigh as I step into my childhood bedroom, instantly consumed by the memories, mostly good, some bad.

Issy and I shared a bathroom which was sandwiched between our rooms. I remember the first time we ever met.

I’d flown in from Quebec after saying goodbye to my family.

I was scared, excited, and apprehensive about my new life in New York.

I jumped in the shower to wash off the plane stank and get ready to meet Mr. Alessi’s daughters for dinner.

I thought I was alone until the bathroom door burst open and in walked the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, long dark brown hair that was dead straight, the darkest chestnut-colored eyes, and the prettiest pink lips.

“Who the hell are you?” she shrieks as she stares at my naked form before her.

I’ve started to fill out and I know that I’m nothing but muscle right now, so I hope she is appreciating the view. I grab the towel from the rail and throw it in front of my now semi hard dick as I turn the water off and step out, securing the towel around my hips.

“Hey, you must be my new roomie, Isabelle. I’m Pierre,” I say, introducing myself to her, trying to forget the awkwardness of her seeing me naked.

“Roomie?” she asks with fire in her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m in the room next door, your father said it would be cool,” I tell her.

“Dad,” she screams as she runs out of the bathroom.

The memory makes me laugh as I continue walking through my old room.

Not much has changed since I lived here, which is a trip.

I head back through the bathroom and into Issy’s room, what a blast from the past as I stare at all her things still left there as if she were still sixteen.

Suddenly, her bedroom door bursts open and a distressed Issy barrels into the room, those chocolate eyes filled with tears, unaware she’s not alone.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off her today, watching her stand there stoically for her sisters, hugging them tightly as they struggled throughout the day.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she yells, noticing me standing there.

It’s been what feels like a lifetime since I’ve seen her.

She was living in London for nearly a decade after we broke up, but she came home when her dad had his first heart attack a couple of years ago.

We ran into each other in the hospital, and after that time, she made sure it never happened again.

I’ve run into her on the odd occasion since we broke up, but not as frequently as I thought, nor hoped I would.

“I needed a moment. Looks like you did, too?”

Those chocolate eyes narrow on me, and the tears that were ready to fall seem to vanish as her anger takes over. “Yes, in my room.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in your room,” I say, cracking a joke, trying to make things less awkward.

“You’re not welcome here.”

I thought after all this time and after today that maybe … guess I was wrong. “Issy …” I say.

“No,” she answers as I notice the tears starting to fall across her cheeks. I go to take a step forward to comfort her, but she stops me. “No.”

“I just want to help,” I tell her. Seeing her so broken is my undoing.

“I don’t want your help,” she says stubbornly as she wipes her cheeks angrily.

We glare at each other.

Fuck it.

She needs me. “Well, you’re going to get it anyway. You’ve always been so stubborn. I’ve watched you be strong all day for your sisters. You held them, comforted them, but no one comforted you.” I take a couple more steps toward her.

Issy steps back, fire burning in those eyes. “Just because I’m alone here today doesn’t mean I’m alone.”

Oh. “Are you seeing someone?” What the hell am I doing asking her that?

“That’s none of your business,” she snaps back.

“Why isn’t he here then?” I push her on the subject because I want to know what kind of asshole doesn’t accompany his girl to her father’s funeral.

“I could ask the same thing about your fiancée.”

Touché there. “She had to work.” Honestly, I didn’t want her here because she would say something that would irritate the hell out of me, or she would try to get me to leave early.

I mean, she’s spent the entire day asking me stupid wedding questions when she knows where I am, but that’s Kitty, self-absorbed as they come.

“I think you should leave,” Issy says, glaring at me as she struggles to keep her composure.

I take a step toward her. “No. I think you need me.”

Issy rears back as if my words slapped her. “Like hell I do.”

What the hell am I doing? This is her father’s funeral, but now I’m angry about the past and I can’t stop myself.

“You’re right, you don’t need anyone,” I tell her as I run my hand through my hair.

“But maybe I need you.” The words are out before I realize what I’ve said.

An overwhelming sense of grief hits me as if someone is sitting on my chest on a two-hundred-pound boulder.

I can’t breathe. I try to hide it, but I’m failing as a sob rips from my lips.

“I miss him.” Issy’s face softens for the briefest of moments.

Alberto was like a father to me, especially as my own father left a long time ago, thinking a family was holding his hockey career back.

He never became anyone great in the league.

He was a solid player, but that didn’t change the fact that he never came back for his family either.

He filled his life with women and booze until he died many years ago, which we found out through the news.

“I can’t be the one, Pierre, not today, not now, not ever. I need to leave. I can’t be here with you.” Issy shakes her head, unable to contain her sob as she walks toward the door.

She’s right. But I thought, for one day we could put all the past behind us and honor her father. “You’re good at doing that,” I bite back, the wave of anger lashing at my conscience.

Issy stills before whirling around, the grief suddenly vanishing, it’s replaced with her own anger. “Excuse you.”

I chuckle darkly as I take a couple of steps toward her. I’m guessing today is the day I decide to poke into our past, a past she won’t ever talk to me about. “At least this time you’re not running halfway across the world to get away from me.”

Issy gasps. “Fuck you,” she yells, taking a couple of hurried, angry steps toward me. “How dare you say that to me?” she hisses, poking a hard finger into my chest.

Ouch.

“Today isn’t about you, which I know might be hard for Mr. Hockey Superstar to appreciate.” She continues to push her finger into my chest.

“It’s not about your hate toward me either.

” I scowl at her. “Would you stop poking me,” I snap, grabbing the offending hand and moving it behind her back so she can’t bruise me anymore.

Unfortunately, that brings her dangerously close to me, the closest she has been since our breakup.

I’m six foot five and she’s only five foot five, and the height difference between us has never felt this large until now.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” she barks at me before punching me in the chest with her free hand. Does she forget I’m a hockey player? I’m an immovable object.

“No,” I tell her.

“You arrogant fucking asshole, let go of me,” she yells as she huffs and puffs. Her cheeks are bright red with anger as she continues to push herself against me. “Just let me go,” she pleads, her punches becoming weaker against me. “Please, Pierre.” She hiccups on her tears.

Fuck I’m an asshole. What the hell am I thinking? She doesn’t deserve my anger, not today. It hurt when she left me all those years ago, especially because she’s never let me apologize to her. I needed her to know how sorry I was for fucking up so badly. She’s right, I am a self-centered asshole.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her ear.

“I don’t want you to.” She sobs.

“I know,” I tell her, letting her hand go as I cup her face and wipe her tears away.

“Let those tears out. You need to let them out. Otherwise, you’re going to drive yourself mad.

” I didn’t when my own father died, and instead, I took my anger and grief out on the opposing teams. It was great for the fans, not so great for my mental health, not when the golden boy of hockey got into trouble for punching another team’s fan when I was drunk.

That was before Kitty. I cleaned myself up before her, that moment was my rock bottom and unfortunately, I had mine publicly.

Issy relents for the briefest of moments as I wrap my arms around her.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper again as I pull her into me, and this time, she doesn’t fight as she breaks down.

“It’s not fair,” she mumbles against my chest. “I told him he needed to look after himself more. Why didn’t he listen? Why did he leave us?”

I stroke her hair. “Your father was stubborn. It runs in the family.”

“He didn’t have to die. It was preventable,” she says, looking up at me, those brown eyes red rimmed with tears, and she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Sometimes it’s not. Your father had an aneurysm, there was no way of predicting that.”

Issy shakes her head. “I told him to stop drinking coffee, to have a better diet to …” her words catching on a sob.

I hug her tightly again. “Your father loved you girls, and he would have done everything in his power to not leave you, but sometimes the universe has other plans.”

“I’m not strong enough to deal with this world without him,” she confesses.